A quiet November eve came by,
painted by an azure sky,
upon a fresh new canvas white,
a wonderful treat to these hidden eyes.
Stepping to this water hole,
majestic buck stares into my soul,
what does he see I do not know,
for now I'm content to let him go.
Days ahead may find him harm,
hunting season will give alarm,
his senses honed quite sharp,
will be tested from its start.
Does his glance imply distrust,
that I'm of tasty venison lust,
for as I admire him as I must,
reduced to table will be just.
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